


St George's Day

by alltoseek



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, unrelenting angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltoseek/pseuds/alltoseek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unremitting endless internal angsting and utter sadness and crying and tears with no redeeming value. Unauthorised sequel to feroxargentea's "For King and Country".</p>
            </blockquote>





	St George's Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feroxargentea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feroxargentea/gifts).
  * Inspired by [For King and Country](https://archiveofourown.org/works/328557) by [feroxargentea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feroxargentea/pseuds/feroxargentea). 



For Captain Aubrey the day was easy enough to get through, busy with new orders, plans, discussions with the master, the gunner, the purser, the bosun.

As busy and wearing as his day was, however, that night he did not fall asleep instantly upon lying in his cot, as was typical for him. Images of George swam in his vision - an infant in his mother's arms, smiling and happy; toddling barefoot in the garden, exploring and happy; just breeched, running with his sisters, happily announcing a message, a package, a visitor; learning to ride, to play cricket, to sail; struggling with French and Latin under Mrs Oakes' tutelage, his father so proud, so proud; a young man proud in his new midshipman's uniform, so happy, happy, happiness beaming throughout his round rosy face, outlined in golden hair, held back in a queue like his father's...

The tears fell unchecked down Jack's cheeks.

The following days were much the same. Fortunately even on a well-run ship there was always work to be done, even for the the captain. Always a taut ship, _Surprise_ and her crew were never more thoroughly organised and inspected. No detail was overlooked. Every possible scenario and outcome of their orders was considered and planned for. A programme of practice for every eventuality - related to weather, sailing, battle - was designed and implemented.

Unfortunately the nights following were also much the same. Endless memories of George, alone or with his sisters and mother, family and friends, followed him lying awake or dreaming in his sleep. Every morning his eyes red, throat sore, face streaked, pillowed damp but not with sweat.

Jack had suffered much loss of friends and shipmates - every seaman had, of course. It was inevitable; it was part of the Navy. No death in the service was purposeless; none avoidable. Jack mourned each and every one of those losses, whether a close friend and shipmate of many years, or a squeaker lost during his first voyage. All were heart-breaking and his tears for them unashamed. He had at times called for a officer or seaman who'd died days or even weeks ago, shocked anew at the loss. This was natural.

The hardest part of his job had always been the letters, particularly the ones to the parents of the young. He'd always known how painful - no, not how painful, but that it must be painful - indescribably so. Now he knew just how, and just how indescribably so. Unendurable. Except that as much as he hurt, he was worried that he still hadn't felt the worst of it. Except he must endure, for what else was there to do?

His days were numb movements through the routine of the ship, always measured out by the bells. Thank God for the routine, for the work. His only solace was focus on the living. He thought of Philip and of Hen; how he best could aid them. How best he could fight, bring an end to Napoleon's threat.

But except for freeing Hen and Philip, he had no heart for war any longer. Which was ridiculous, for a naval officer - sea-battles were everything. Peacetime brought only unemployment, half-pay at best. No more chance for prizes, promotions, commands. Jack was unconcerned for his own career, but what use preserving all these mids only to strand them on shore with no work?

George needed the war to pursue his career; the war had ended George's need for a career. Sophie had briefly protested the need to send George to sea at all; as eldest son the Woolcombe estate could reasonably provide for him. Jack had scoffed - the sea was in his blood, and all young men needed occupation. During war England needed her sons to fight. The Aubreys had always fought - Jack's father, George's namesake, was also an eldest son but naturally still entered the service, as did Jack himself. Staying on shore was no guarantee of safety; death was everywhere. Life at sea was actually remarkably healthy - ask Stephen. And Heneage Dundas would take good care of George, see to his education, proper behaviour, that he would not run dissolute in the wrong company. There were far more dangers ashore for young gentlemen at loose ends than at sea.

Far more dangers... but that didn't matter now. The dangers of war at sea, whatever they were in relation to all other dangers in life, had put an end to George and all Jack's hopes for a legacy.

People died; that's what they did. All life ended in death. War caused more death to come sooner, perhaps, than it would have; but what was life without a purpose? And what better purpose than fighting for one's country? Jack had mourned every loss, but had always known they were the natural part of life. And a death at sea, in battle, was a death of a life lived properly. He'd always known this. George's death didn't change anything. George had lived properly, as well as he could, as well as Jack and Sophie could insure he would.

But now what was Jack's own life worth, with no one to come after him? What of this never-ending well of sadness that bubbled up each night? What of the emptiness that filled him all day?

~~~~~

Stephen was hardly surprised at Jack's throwing himself into his work. The Captain had always worked hard, loved his work, especially at sea. That he exhibited great patience with all about him, from the clumsy efforts at sympathy to the clumsiest efforts at seamanship, Jack Aubrey responded with equal detached politeness, accepting the one and educating the other. This too was unsurprising; Stephen having frequent opportunities to observe his friend's equanimity in crisis, fatalistically accepting what has happened without casting blame and simply pressing forward with what can be done.

More surprising was the silence of the violin. Stephen naturally did not expect an invitation to play together in the depths of Jack's grieving, but he had long known that Jack expressed his deepest emotions most eloquently through his music, whether extemporising or playing old favourites with new-found feeling. Yet the fiddle sat forlornly in its case, untouched.

Most surprising of all was Stephen's own low feelings at Jack's withdrawal. Stephen himself mourned for George; he had come to love the boy for his own sake, as well as being his particular friend's son and not least for his daughter's friend and cousin. This grief was natural, and Stephen knew better than to impose it upon Jack, or impose his concern upon a man clearly using the normality of routine to work through his grief.

What was surprisingly painful was the loss of Jack's singularly sweet smile when he saw Stephen on deck, or entering the cabin. The lack of the inane, "There you are, Stephen," created an absurdly hollow feeling in his chest. The most Jack spared him was a glance, a nod, a forced half-smile - the last more distancing than no acknowledgement at all.

Of course Stephen did not take this personally, and it was ridiculous to make George's death about himself. He continued to share Jack's meals and time in the great cabin as they had always gone on, hoping that his presence, as routine as the bells and bosun's whistles, would form part of the normality of life at sea that Jack found soothing.

About a week after Stephen had returned to the ship with the dire news, he entered the cabin to find his friend chewing absently on his quill, a frequent habit whilst composing any type of letter. Lost in thought, Jack did not look up, and Stephen sat down with his sheaf of music, debating which, if any, he might play solo on his 'cello. A moment later he heard a great sigh and the pen set down.

"Do you know I have not even written to Sophie?" said Jack. "She will have heard - it's in the report that went back with the Admiral when I received my orders - but I had not time to dash off even a short note. Not that a short note would even suit in this case-" Jack cut himself off, his throat choking off once more. "I'm sorry, Stephen, I know you don't--"

"Never in life, brother; do not distress yourself on my account," reassured Stephen, moving closer.

"Oh Lord," said Jack, wiping his face with a broad hand, "I am so tired of tears. I cry every night. I want to be done with them." He looked down at his half-written letter, filled starts and re-starts and scrawls crossed out. "Oh God. I need to have something written soon - we may make our rendezvous in a few days, a week at most. All I can think is it will be even harder on Sophie. And I won't even be there, to be with her."

"Shall I write for you, my dear?"

"Thank you, that is kind in you to offer, but this has to come from me. Of course you may want to express your own condolences - and write to Brigid. And I know you grieve yourself, poor George." Jack looked at Stephen, blue eyes aswim in pain.

Stephen nodded, having known the offer useless. Yet he had nothing else to offer, to say, and even he was tired of the silence.

Jack blew his nose on his handkerchief, then cleared his paper and pen away. "This will never do. Brother, what do you say to some music? It seems ages since we played."

"With all my heart."

Stephen did play with all his heart, putting those feelings so useless to express in words into the music, letting his 'cello's strings sing them for him. However Jack's playing was mechanical, uninspired. After some time Stephen thought of suggesting they stop, but Jack pressed on. Finally he stopped at the end of a piece, his instrument and bow sinking as if even their light weight were too heavy hold anymore. "I am so sorry, brother," he said. "It seems I have not the heart for playing any more than for writing. I do wish you would play, though, should you like to. I do miss the music, even if I cannot make it myself."

Stephen simply nodded, and swept into a tune he'd written himself, about the loss of the fair isle of Tir na Og. At first whilst he played Jack wrote out fair copies of his log, but eventually Stephen noticed that he had set down the pen once again, and sat back with eyes closed.


End file.
